The Day After Tomorrow

57

BERNHARD OVEN stood in the darkened bedroom window of Vera Monneray’s apartment and watched the taxi pull up. A moment later, Vera got out and entered the building. Oven was about to step away when he saw a car turn the corner with its headlights out. Pressing back against the curtain, he watched a late-model Peugeot come down the street in darkness, then pull over and stop. Easing a palm-sized monocular from his jacket pocket, he put the glass on the car. Two men were in the front seat.

Police.

So they were doing it too, using Vera to find the American. They’d been watching her; when she left the hospital suddenly, they followed. He should have anticipated that.

Bringing the glass up again, he saw one of them pick up a radio microphone. Most likely they were calling in for instructions. Oven smiled; the police weren’t the only ones aware of Mademoiselle Monneray’s personal relationship with the prime minister. The Organization had been aware of it since François Christian had been appointed. And because of it, and the awkward political consequences that might follow if something went wrong, the likelihood the surveillance inspectors would be given a free hand to come in after her, no matter what they suspected, were almost nil. They would either remain where they were and continue the surveillance from outside or wait until superiors arrived. That delay was all the window Oven would need.

Quickly he left the bedroom and walked down the hall, stepping into the darkened kitchen just as the apartment door opened. Two people were talking and he saw a light go on in the living room. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but was certain the voices belonged to Vera and the doorman.

Suddenly they were out of the living room and coming down the hall directly toward the kitchen. Moving around the center console, Oven stepped into a walk-in pantry, lifted the Walther automatic from his waistband and waited in the dark.

A moment later Vera came into the kitchen with the doorman at her heels and turned on the light. She was halfway across and heading for the rear service door when she stopped.

“What is it, mademoiselle?” the doorman said.

“I’m being a fool, Philippe,” she said, coldly. “And the police are being clever. They found the vial and delivered it to you presupposing you would notify me and I’d do just what I did. They assume I know where Paul is, so they sent a tall inspector, hoping I would think it was the gunman and be frightened enough to lead them to Paul.”

Philippe wasn’t as certain. “How can you be sure? No one, not even Monsieur Osborn, has seen the tall man closely. If this man was a policeman, he’s one I’ve never seen before.”

“Have you seen every gendarme in Paris? I don’t think so—”

“Mademoiselle, think the other way. What if, instead of a policeman, he was the one who shot Monsieur Osborn?”

Oven heard their footsteps retreat across the kitchen floor. The light was turned out and their voices diminished as they walked back down the hallway.

“Perhaps we should inform Monsieur Christian,” Philippe said, as they reached the entrance to the living room.

“No,” Vera said quietly. As yet, only Paul Osborn knew of her breakup with the prime minister. She hadn’t decided how, or even if, to inform those who were privy to their relationship of the change in it. Besides, the last thing she wanted to do now was to expose Francois to Something like this. Francois Christian was one of three would-be successors to the president and the in-fighting moving toward the next election had already become what insiders were describing as a “political bloodbath.” A scandal now, especially one involving murder, would be ruinous and, lovers or not, she still cared for François far too deeply to risk destroying his career.

“Wait here.” Leaving Philippe standing in the hallway, Vera Went into the bedroom.

Philippe watched after her. His job was to serve Mademoiselle Monneray, and if necessary protect her. Not with his life, but with communication. At his desk in the lobby, he had the prime minister’s private telephone number with instructions to call at any time, at any hour, if mademoiselle should be in difficulty.

“Philippe, come here,” she called from the darkened bedroom.

When he entered he saw her standing at the curtain by the window.

“See for yourself.”

Walking over, Philippe stood beside her and peered out. A Peugeot was parked across the street. Spill from a streetlamp was enough to illuminate the figures of two men sitting in the front seat.

“Go back down to the front desk,” Vera said. “Do what you would normally do, as if nothing had happened. In a few minutes call a taxi for me. The destination will be the hospital. If the police should come in, tell them I came home feeling ill but shortly afterward felt better and decided to return to work.”

“Of course, mademoiselle.”

Oven watched from the dimness of the kitchen doorway as Philippe came out of the bedroom and turned down the hallway toward him. Immediately the Walther came up in his hand and he pressed back, out of sight. A moment later he heard the apartment door open, then close. After that came silence.

It meant one thing. The doorman had gone and Vera Monneray was alone in the apartment.